


take the long way home

by vipertooths



Series: IT Universe [4]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Families of Choice, Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, M/M, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 04:47:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20754578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths
Summary: He calls again and again there's nothing. No movement he can see, even as he sweeps the light from his headlamp across the cistern. It seems, suddenly, like a gaping maw, the mouth of a hungry beast waiting to swallow them whole, and maybe it's most of the way there already."Guys, c'mon, please. Please c'mon, I don't wanna walk outta here alone."





	take the long way home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ewwie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewwie/gifts).

> based on the prompt of maturin reviving eddie and him having to walk out of there alone! thank you ewwie for the wonderful insp ❤❤❤ also thank you to my wonderful beta, [nat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_geese/pseuds/golden_geese)
> 
> also stan is not in this but i also never said he died so you can see this as canon diverg after they defeat _it_ or you can just as easily pretend stan lived and actually hes just in the hospital doing bird puzzles because patty found him in time (which is how i like to headcanon it because this is my world and i want them all to live)

"Guys?"

Eddie stares at the surface of the water, heart sinking like a stone to his stomach. _ Sinking_, his brain snags. Then, _ alone. alone. alone. _

"Okay, guys, c'mon."

His call is met with silence and he knows, he _ knows_, that they're saving Bev, or at least trying to. He shouldn't be doing anything less, but fear grips him tight as a vice, pinning him in place.

He calls again and again there's nothing. No movement he can see, even as he sweeps the light from his headlamp across the cistern. It seems, suddenly, like a gaping maw, the mouth of a hungry beast waiting to swallow them whole, and maybe it's most of the way there already.

"Guys, c'mon, please. Please c'mon, I don't wanna walk outta here alone."

He's praying, begging, and he's not even sure to what. Something. _ Anything_. And something must hear him, must feel the desperation and terror rolling off of him in endless waves, because the surface breaks with a collective gasp, with _ one, two, three, four, five _ heads. 

The adrenaline makes way for a rush of relief, and his bones feel like jelly, like he's already being digested, like he was swallowed too and hadn't even realized it. 

A headache is building behind his eyes from trying to hold back tears. "I really don't feel like crying," he says, unsure if he's talking to himself or the others or a higher power. He can't start crying. Not now, or he might never stop. He doesn't have the luxury and he doesn't want a reason. Maybe he'll cry when it's all over, if they get that far.

Maybe it'll be tears of joy.

**+**

Eddie comes to violently, lungs burning, gut churning. He vomits bile from his empty stomach into the pitch darkness and tries to breathe through the pain. He was dead. He died. He died in this fucking sewer. But he's back now, isn't he? He can't tell. It's so dark, but moving isn't an option. 

In. Out. In. Out. Breathing is easier than thinking. A rock presses uncomfortably into his tailbone and it's all he can do to shift slightly, to keep his head bowed and wait for the pain to recede. It's slow, slow work: so slow, he wonders if he isn't in Hell, meant to suffer for all eternity.

He isn't sure how long he sits there for before the agony dulls into something more manageable, but it feels like a lifetime. And then the panic begins to set in. He can't see and he can't hear over his rapid breaths. His head feels wrong, full, woozy. 

Shaking, he gets on his knees and begins feeling around on the ground for a flashlight. His fingers touch the soft material of a piece of clothing and there is a heart-stopping moment where he thinks it's one of his friends. There is no give beneath it, no soft and clammy flesh, just hard earth. 

After a few minutes of searching, of smacking his fumbling hands into stone until they ache, his palm finally closes around metal. He moves his hands over the object, recognizing the domed shape: a headlamp. It takes him a few tries to turn it on, but when he finally does, it blinds him. Eyes watering, he turns the light away from, blinking at the giant white spot in his vision.

When he can see again, he shines the light around, trying to get his bearings. One of the entranceways to the cavern he's in is completely cut off by rock and dirt and debris. It's collapsed, he realizes. There is no getting out the way he came in. As he turns to look down the other side of the cavern, his attention snags on the discarded jacket next to him. Richie's. 

It jars loose a memory–Richie pressing the jacket to his abdomen to slow the blood loss. So much blood loss. Richie in the deadlights. Saving him. Being impaled.

His hands fly to his midsection, expecting to find a hole right through the center of him. His shirt is torn, but the skin beneath is whole, if tender. It doesn't make sense, but nothing makes any fucking sense in this shit town. He only knows two simple facts–that he died, and that he is no longer dead.

_ I died_, he thinks again.

The thought is like a zap of electricity each time, sharp and unpleasant, but it's only just now begun to sink in. It's different, to feel it rather than just know it. And, God, he can feel it now. The memories are flooding back and he can feel what he felt as he was dying. The fear, the numbness, the grief. Was he grieving for himself or something else? What was it? What was he so sad about, in those last moments?

An answer pushes itself into his mind like it's coming from somewhere else, like it's been handpicked and placed there. _ Richie. _ He remembers Richie's face, his hands, his voice. He remembers the last thing he'd been able to say, a broken whisper, an unfinished train of thought.

_ "You know, I… I…" _

He's not sure what he would've said, given the chance, but it feels too big and too scary to consider right now, in this dark and dank cave in the underbelly of Derry where he might die a second time.

Ignoring the dried blood, he picks the jacket up and slips it on, somehow feeling a little bit safer with it wrapped around him.

"Guys?" he calls out, but he knows they aren't there. The only answer is his echo. A passing thought, so awful it makes him dry heave, flits across his mind: they aren't here because they're dead, buried in the cistern.

But Eddie is alive. He repeats it a few times out loud to solidify the belief. "I'm alive. I'm alive. They're okay. We're alive."

He forces himself to his feet and begins walking away from the blocked entryway, staying close to the wall for both support and so there was at least one direction he couldn't be attacked from, if something is down here with him. A voice in the back of his mind tells him he's alone, that It is really dead this time, but he finds the feeling hard to trust. He'd thought It dead before.

The cavern shrinks until he's forced to crawl and then he hits a wall. For a moment, he feels a misery and hopelessness so acute that he almost bursts into tears. But there, to his left…

He shuffles over and tentatively reaches into the hole and meets only air on the other side. It'll be a tight fit, but he thinks he can swing it.

First, he takes the headlamp off and slides it through, then lays flat on his stomach and begins to shimmy himself into the next space. He hisses as he catches the spare scrape, but then he's on the other side, possible freedom lying ahead of him.

It's dark and hauntingly quiet as he makes his way down the tunnel and when it turns off into a watercourse, he almost laughs. To be thigh deep in runoff and muck and _ glad _ for it is not a thing he would ever have expected to happen in his life.

He pushes on, trying to ignore the paranoia eating away at him the longer he walks, telling him that something is going to jump out of the dark at him or drag him into the water. His feet go numb at some point, and his legs ache from the cold, and his chest hurts, and he has no clue where he's going, but he doesn't stop. 

Fears about his friends plague him the entire time, intrusive and insistent. How would he function if something had happened to them? How could he move on if they were gone? Something bigger than It held them together, something deep-rooted, in their very makeup.

Eddie's never been one to believe in the idea of soulmates or fate, but there's no other way to describe how he feels about the losers. They were meant to be in each other's life. It was the natural way of things, as simple a fact as a river running to an ocean. Even when he wanted to leave, to take the coward's way out, he knew that.

Eventually, like the sun breaking through a grey sky, he sees the light at the end of the tunnel. _ Through Purgatory into Heaven_, he thinks. _ Or at least a better Purgatory. _

His headlamp doesn't prepare him for the light of day when he finally (_ finally _ ) steps out into daylight. He squints at his surroundings, not quite recognizing them, but realizing he's in a roadside ditch when his eyes finally adjust. Maybe it should have struck him then, that he was _ out_. He had dragged himself from the belly of the beast and he was _ alive_, breathing the fresh, open air of rural Maine. But it doesn't. 

It doesn't hit him until the bright sky darkens to dusk and he sees the _ Welcome to Derry _ sign. His legs almost go out from under him and he stumbles, a bark of laughter startling him until he realizes it came from his own mouth. He laughs again, and keeps laughing until he reaches the sign, a stark joy coursing through him. He would seem unhinged to any passersby, clinging to a gateway sign and laughing madly. Maybe he is.

When he finally comes down and catches his breath, he forces his overused muscles into the town. A fresh wave of determination has taken hold of him, and he doesn't slow until he sees the town house.

Ignoring the looks he's being thrown, so similar to the ones he'd gotten when he had been covered with leper vomit, he heads to his car and pulls a fresh pair of clothes from his bag, feeling too weak to carry the whole thing up the stairs. He grabs his phone too, but a quick check proves it completely dead and he tosses it back in.

His room is empty when he gets to it, and the rest of the building is quiet, but he focuses on getting himself clean before he does anything else. He strips the soiled clothing from his body and leaves them on the floor of the bathroom as the water heats up and steps into the shower before the temperature regulates. 

The shower curtain is gone, dragged off by Bower's, and it reminds him of the hole in his cheek. How had he forgotten about that? He gently presses his tongue to the wound, only to find there _ is _ no wound. Gone, just like the one from It. He rips the bandage off his face with a wince and tosses it onto the floor with the clothes and the blood splatter.

On autopilot, he soaps himself up, mind beautifully blank for once in his life. All his brain can muster up is that he's _ tired_. So, so tired. 

He sinks to the floor of the tub and presses his head against the cool tile, letting the water run over him. His eyes slip shut and he thinks _ I'll just rest them for a little. It couldn't hurt. Just a little while. _

_ Just… _

He opens his eyes again after what feels like a few seconds, but the now cold stream of the shower and his convulsive shivering say otherwise. Cursing mentally, he turns it off and pushes himself up, taking care not to slip as he climbs out of the tub and onto the soaked floor. 

He dries off quickly, fingers stiff and freezing, and gets himself into his blessedly dry clothing. His nose is running, so he's probably sick, but his bag of medicine is still in his car, seeming infinitely far away at the moment. He only feels incrementally more rested than he did before his impromptu nap and he doesn't even want to _ think _ of the delayed-onset pain he's going to have to suffer for the next few days… 

With a groan, he exits the bathroom. He has to find the others, regardless of his protesting muscles. 

He checks each of their rooms–still empty. Why hadn't he brought his phone up and plugged it in? He should do it now, just in case they don't come back here, but their things are still in their rooms. They _ have _ to come back, he reasons. _ They have to. _

Without thinking about it, he finds himself doubling back to Richie's room. He crawls under the covers, assuring himself that he'll go get his phone as soon as he's warmed up, assuring himself that it's not strange that he hadn't chosen his own room to lie down in. He and Richie had been best friends, once upon a time, and sharing a bed was something they'd done without hesitation. 

But that was then. They're grown men now. He can't pretend he doesn't understand the implications of it all. He can't pretend he would have curled up in Ben's bed as quickly.

It makes him restless, irritated, ashamed. He had a life before Mike called. Maybe it wasn't anything spectacular, but he'd had it all the same. And he knows now that going back to it will kill some part of him. Worse, he knows there will be a part of him that refuses to be killed. The part that carries the sound of Richie's laugh and the feeling of their hands clasped together.

It seems like some sort of miracle he'd ever forgotten Richie and the others to begin with, not that the stupid fucking clown ever meant for it to be. But it was easier that way, not to be weighed down by the memories, by the _ longing_. He knows it won't happen again, that the curse that plagued Derry died with It. Would it hurt more to leave now than it had before? Even with his head as foggy as it still is, he remembers the day with merciless clarity.

_ He stood beside his mom's car as she sat in the front seat, occasionally shouting out the window that they needed to _ leave_. He wasn't going to let himself be rushed; it was the last time he'd see his friends for who knows how long–26 years, not that he'd imagined that then. _

_ What remained of the losers (Richie, Ben, Mike) crowded around him in a group huddle, teary eyed, holding onto him like they might be able to keep him there. _

_ "I don't want to leave," he said miserably. "Not without you guys." In all of the fantasies he'd had of leaving Derry, it was never alone. They were meant to get out of this shit town together, and they were all leaving one by one instead, scattered to the four winds. _

_ "Promise you'll call," Mike said. "Or write. Promise." _

_ There was a trace of desperation in his voice and Eddie knew they were both thinking the same thing. Bev, Bill, Stan, they had all done the same. But they hadn't heard from Stanley in months, and he couldn't remember the last time anyone had gotten word from Bill or Beverly. _

_ He said the words anyway, intent on following through. No matter what new friends he made, the Loser's Club would always be his family. "I promise." _

_ "Edward Kaspbrak," his mother yelled again, "get in the car!" _

_ Richie enveloped him in a hug, face burying into his shoulder. He could feel the hot wetness of tears beginning to soak through his shirt. "You can stay with me," Richie whimpered. _

_ But he couldn't. They both knew it. _

_ He hugged Richie back, chest constricting like his ribs were trying to cave in on his heart. Ben and Mike joined in, arms wrapping around them, heads bowed, tear tracks on their faces. _

_ When they finally began to separate, when Richie first lifted his head and looked into his eyes, just a few inches away, all he wanted to do was press up and kiss him. _

_ It wasn't an urge he'd never had before. Much as he'd tried to ignore it, it was an ever there feeling in Richie's presence, an itch he could never scratch. _

_ For a flash, he thought he saw the same want reflected in Richie's eyes, but then Richie had pulled back, and the moment was gone. _

_ "Don't forget about us, Eds." _

_ "How could I? Your dumb face is in all of my nightmares." _

_ The group chuckled weakly and let him go. They should've held on tighter. They all should've held on tighter to each other. _

He breathes in deep and lets the memory drift away on an exhale. He's finally stopped shivering, but he can still feel the goosebumps raised across his skin where he's hugging his arms. He rubs them vigorously, trying to warm himself up.

As enrapt as he is in combating the chill, he almost misses the sound of footsteps in the hallway. They pass by slowly and then he hears the click of another door open and shut. Heart rate speeding up, Eddie abandons Richie's bed and makes to follow the sound.

He opens the rooms one by one again, peeking inside to see if any of the losers have returned. Empty, empty, empty. But he heard those footsteps, he's sure of it. 

With a sigh, he presses his forehead to the wall. He considers, for a second, that maybe he's just losing it, when he hears a faint shuffling. It dawns on him that he hadn't bothered to check _ his own _ room.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he walks to his door and opens it up. And there, like some strange mirror of himself just minutes ago, lies Richie, curled up in the middle of his bed.

"Rich," he says softly, voice rasping. "Richie."

Richie's body tenses visibly, but he doesn't answer.

Eddie takes a few steps into the room. "Richie," he says again, louder this time, and this time, Richie begins muttering something under his breath. It takes a few seconds before he realizes what. _ It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. _

A broken sound leaves his lips, some indefinable heartache made audible. He hadn't stopped to think about it, that his friends would be _ grieving _ for him. Not really, not enough to prepare him for this. "I'm real, Richie. I'm here. I'm real. I– I woke up down there. I don't know how. But I got out. I _ got out_, okay?" 

And then Richie is crying, shoulders shaking, heels of his palms pressed into his eyes like he's trying to make the world go away. But Eddie isn't going anywhere. 

He walks the rest of the way to the bed and reaches out, fingertips just barely making contact before Richie is gasping and scrabbling onto his knees with wide, terrified eyes.

There is a pregnant pause, an oppressive silence cut only by their irregular breathing. Richie blinks hard, swallows, shakes his head.

As if Eddie might disappear if he moves too fast, Richie shifts forward slowly, hand stretching out until it's pressed against Eddie's chest. After a few heartbeats, he slides his hand down to the spot Eddie had been impaled, now just a fleshy, pink scar beneath the t-shirt.

"I'm alive."

The words must register this time, because Richie lets out a sob and drags him forward by his shirt, onto the bed and into Richie's body like a roadside collision. He grunts at the impact, but doesn't move away, doesn't even consider it as Richie's clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeline, a steady stream of words being murmured into his skin. "You're alive. You're alive. I'm so sorry, Eddie. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't–"

His arms come up of their own accord and wrap around Richie, squeezing him back just as tight. He thinks, for a split second, that he's never felt so much love aimed at him, but he has. It was a constant in his life, once, back when they'd all been together.

"It was my fault you–" Richie starts, but the words catch in his throat and stick there. He's trembling, crying, and Eddie realizes with a start that he's not the only one.

Eddie's tears flow silently over his cheeks, blur his vision until the world becomes vague smears of light and dark and color. It reminds him of dying, of those final moments in It's lair with Richie's face unfocused and fading in front of him. "It wasn't. It wasn't your fault."

Richie doesn't answer, just keeps holding on like he never wants to let go again. So they stay there, kneeling on the bed and wrapped in each other's arms, finally safe, finally approaching something close to okay, until their eyes run dry.

"You're cold, Eds," Richie says eventually, voice thick and hoarse. "You're so cold. You're gonna get sick."

"I'm okay, Richie. I'll be okay. You're practically a living furnace anyway."

Richie pulls back and shakes his head, sniffling loudly. "You gotta get under the covers. Come on."

In any other situation, Eddie would've protested being manhandled, but he just lets Richie fuss until they're both lying down, him under the blanket and Richie on top.

They're too close like this, curled in toward each other like a set of parentheses, like what's between them is separate from the rest of the world; it's too intimate.

_ "You know, I… I…" _

The memory prods at him and he finds it no easier to think about now than he had in the sewers. How does one take feelings that are as large and nebulous and all-encompassing as his and fit them down into a few words? Life doesn't work like that. Life refuses to let itself be pigeon-holed or understood at that level. 

"Where are the others?" he asks quietly.

"They went out to eat. I came back early." 

Eddie nods, exhaustion heavying his eyelids. He yawns around the back of his hand. 

Richie places a hand on his neck, thumb over his pulse point. "You're tired. Sleep."

He yawns again and lets his eyes fall shut, drifting off to the even sound of Richie's breaths.

**+**

"Richie. Rich. Richie, get off. I need to take a piss, man."

Richie groans, but doesn't move, one arm around Eddie's shoulders, one leg hooked over the back of his knees. He wriggles out from under the blanket and octopus hold and heads to the bathroom to relieve himself.

He notes, while washing his hands, that he's finally warm again. When his stomach rumbles mournfully, he also notes that he is really fucking _ hungry_. 

There's a minibar in the corner of the room that he hadn't planned on touching, but it beats going hungry for the rest of the night. He empties it out, hands stocked with crackers and cookies and two protein bars. He crams one into his mouth unceremoniously as he makes a beeline for the table in the corner, but the sound of voices stops him short.

Pushing everything into one arm, he opens the door and heads out into the hallway, a smile spreading across his face as the sound of the losers talking in the lobby grows louder. 

"Maybe we should offer him a drink," Mike says, browsing the bottles of alcohol on the shelf.

Eddie gets to the top of the stairs to see Bill giving Mike a significant _ look_.

"I'm sensing a story," Ben says, brows raised.

Bev huffs an amused breath and rolls her eyes. Her gaze lands on Eddie, standing a few steps down on the staircase, and then… then all hell breaks loose.

Beverly screams. Ben jumps up from his seat, knocking it over with a clatter. Eddie yelps and inhales part of the protein bar. Mike drops and smashes a bottle of top shelf whiskey on the floor. Bill scrambles to grab the coat rack. Richie yells Eddie's name from the bedroom.

"I thought we _ fucking _ killed It!" Bill screams, brandishing the coat rack while Eddie attempts to choke down his mouthful.

Richie runs down the hallway, pillow creases still in his face, hair a mess, and grabs the bannister as Beverly bursts into tears. "What? What happened!?"

"Richie, get back!" Mike calls, grabbing the broken bottle from the floor to use as a weapon. Eddie _ really _ does not want to be fucking stabbed again.

He finishes coughing, snacks now scattered at his feet, while Richie looks wildly around for some sign of danger. "What? What the fuck is it?"

In the end, it's Ben who moves first, cutting across the lobby and walking up the steps without hesitation. Eddie isn't sure what he's expecting when Ben reaches him, maybe to be physically thrown over the side of the bannister because everyone is so _ fucking done _ with the clown, but it's not to be pulled up off the ground and into a giant hug.

He gets over his surprise quickly enough, returning the hug with maybe not as much enthusiasm because he's pretty sure he's at risk for a broken rib with the way Ben is crushing him. And he doesn't see who comes next, but soon enough he's being squashed by three more sets of arms, questions of _ how _ and _ when _ and _ what happened _ being hurdled out through tears and laughter.

He tries to explain as best as he can, but there's not much to share. He has no clue how he came back, only vague notions his most recent dream touched upon of an otherworldly being.

They end up crowded together in the lobby after the smashed glass is cleaned, the coat rack and its items of clothing are returned to their original place, and Bev provides a container of leftovers from the diner since the group had trampled his dropped snacks.

It strikes Eddie, belatedly, that _ this _ is his home. Not Derry. Not Queens. But _ this_, _ here: the Losers Club_. The Losers are his home, just as they had been since they'd met each other. All the worry about going _ back _ to his life blows away like an errant strand of smoke. These people are his life, no matter where they go from here.

He smiles and leans back as Mike regales them with a childhood story inspired by Eddie's mention of Richie's sleep-clinging, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder with Richie and Bev. Beverly rests her head on him, their arms wound together, and he lets himself fully relax for the first time since he's come back to Derry.

"And Stan is just pinned there, Eddie's head and arm on his chest, Richie lying across his legs, and he says with clear pain in his voice, 'I've had to pee for an hour now.'" 

Beverly laughs and squeezes Eddie's arm gently. "Why didn't he just move them?"

Mike's expression softens, affection writ across his face as clear as day. "I asked the same thing. And he said to me, in that quiet, sure way of his, 'Because this is what friends are for.'"

**EPILOGUE**

"That seemed like a pretty hectic phone call," Richie says, pushing away from the wall he'd been leaning against to blatantly eavesdrop on Eddie.

"I feel like a jackass," Eddie says with a sigh, turning his phone to Do Not Disturb and stuffing it into his pocket. "All these years of marriage, for what?"

Richie pats his shoulder, hand lingering for a moment before falling away. "Could be worse."

"Yeah, how's that?"

"Well, at least you got married. I spent the past three decades with an eternal bachelor's home and weekend reruns of The Golden Girls." Richie smiles, ever the first one to make fun of his pain.

"It was a sham marriage. It wasn't good for either of us."

"Can't believe it took the resurgence of a murderous alien clown for either of us to consider our own life choices."

Eddie's stomach turns, twists, does the fucking samba inside of him as he tries to call up the words he'd been sitting on for the past week, the past _ lifetime_. 

"It wasn't the clown," he says, and Richie's eyebrows draw together. "I mean, it was, but it wasn't. The fucker brought us back here, technically, but that's not the reason I'm leaving New York, or my wife. It's you guys. You reminded me what life is _ meant _ to be. I want that. And maybe I could even build that in New York, but see, the thing is, I have this real big fucking problem now. He lives on the opposite side of the country and does really _ fucking shitty _ stand-up comedy."

Richie's face rearranges itself into utter confusion and Eddie is almost angry at how cute he finds it. 

"You see, this– This fucking _ asshole _ comes back into my life with his stupid jokes and his stupid glasses and that stupid, shit-eating grin of his and I realize: I've been in love with him since I was twelve years old. Which is ridiculous, right? I couldn't even remember who he was for the last twenty-some years."

Richie is staring at him as if he's speaking another language, mouth hanging open. Eddie waits for something, anything, but when Richie finally manages to lift his jaw, the only thing he manages to do is make a high, dumbfounded noise.

Weighing the risk vs reward in his head, Eddie lets out a huff and pulls Richie in by the collar, pouring years worth of pining and wanting and _ loving _ into a kiss that should've happened a long, long time ago.

Richie makes a surprised sound before he all but melts into it, hands cupping the side of Eddie's face gently as he kisses back, and Eddie thinks they were always going to end up here; every joke and argument and step along the way was always going to bring them back to each other. 

A series of wolf whistles pierce the air as the rest of the losers find them and Eddie slides his arms around Richie's neck. Without pausing from his new and very important task of kissing Richie to within an inch of his life, he sticks both of his middle fingers up and the whistles break off into a cacophony of laughter.

And maybe, possibly, just perhaps, it is his favorite sound in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so much for reading! comments always absolutely make my day if you wanna drop one below or come chat on tumblr. you can find me @ vipertooth!


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